“Ball one!” cried the ump.
Jim repeated his movements with hardly a change. This time the pitch was too far outside.
“Ball two!”
“Don’t be afraid of ‘im, Jim!” shouted the Tiger catcher. “He was just lucky before!”
Jim drilled the third pitch over the heart of the plate. Sylvester stepped into it and swung. He didn’t know how to hit “just a nice easy poke.” He swung hard, just like he had always done.
There was the solid sound of wood meeting horsehide, and then the horsehide shooting out to deep left center field, rising steadily and then falling… falling far beyond the fence for a home run.
The Redbird fans stood up and applauded, and the cheerleaders went crazy clapping and cheering and doing cartwheels. Sylvester trotted around the bases, shook hands with the guys waiting for him at the plate, and sat down. He hadn’t even run hard enough to work up a sweat.
Jim Cowley walked, then Ted Sobel grounded out to end the half inning. Red birds 5, Tigers 5.
Sylvester saw the coach looking at him. Mr. Corbin’s mouth hung open, but he seemed too numbed to speak.
The Tigers’ leadoff man socked a scratch single past Jerry Ash, then ran to second on a sacrifice bunt. The next Tiger blasted a high fly to right field. Sylvester sprinted after it. At the last moment he dove with his glove hand stretched out. He landed on his stomach at the same time that the ball landed in his glove.
He rose quickly and winged the ball to Jerry, who sped to first base and touched it before the runner could tag up. Obviously the Tiger didn’t think that the Redbird right fielder was going to get within miles of the ball.
Two outs, and a runner on second base.
Rick fired in two pitches, a strike and a ball. Then the Tiger hit one back to him, which Rick caught and tossed to Jerry for the third out.
“For a slow runner you sure can cover a lot of ground fast!” exclaimed Jim Cowley as Sylvester tossed his glove to the side of the dugout and sat down.
“I guess it just takes that extra effort,” said Sylvester.
Glenn Higgins, pinch-hitting for Stevens in the top of the fifth, cracked the first pitch for a single over second base. Jerry flied out to left, and Lou Masters, pinch-hitting for Bobby Kent, walked. Duane struck out, and Eddie Exton walked, filling the bases.
The fans applauded Rick as he stepped to the plate. So far he had walked and flied out. “You’re due, Rick!” shouted Jim Cowley.
Rick flied out to left field.
6
The Tigers came to bat, gnashing their teeth. The leadoff man waited out Rick’s pitches, got two balls and two strikes on him, then drilled Rick’s next pitch through the hole between left and center fields for two bases.
Milt Stevens fumbled a hot grounder, chalking up an error.
Men on first and second.
Crack! A sharp blow over first baseman Jerry Ash’s head. Sylvester ran in a couple of steps, caught the ball on a hop, and fired it in. It was a long, hard throw, heading directly for Eddie Exton, who was crouched over home plate, waiting for it. Rick caught it instead, turned, and whipped it to Eddie just as the runner slid in between Eddie’s legs.
“Out!” yelled the ump.
A grounder to third ended the threat.
“Okay, Syl,” said Coach Corbin. “This is the last inning and you’re first man up. What’re you going to do?”
Sylvester shrugged. “I don’t know. I never led off before. Shall I wait him out?”
The coach grinned. “Use your judgment, Syl. It’s been working pretty good for you so far.”
Sylvester smiled. “Okay, sir. Thanks.”
He pulled on his helmet, picked up his favorite bat, and stepped to the plate. The stands and bleachers turned into a beehive.
Jim blazed in a pitch. Sylvester let it go, thinking it a little bit too close.
“Strike!” yelled the ump.
Sylvester let another pitch blaze by, believing it was outside.
“Strike two!” yelled the ump.
Sylvester stepped back and looked at him. The umpire smiled pleasantly. “Don’t grumble, Sylvester,” he said. “That cut the outside corner.”
Sylvester stepped back into the box. Jim Smith’s next pitch came in and looked almost exactly like the one before it. Man, he couldn’t let this one go by and be called out on strikes. He swung.
Smack! The ball shot toward right field, climbing higher and higher the farther it went, and dropped inches on the other side of the fence. A home run.
The fans and cheerleaders went wild. They yelled and jumped, and someone screamed, “Hold it! Ya wanna break down the bleachers?”
“You’re terrific, Sylvester,” commended Coach Corbin as he shook hands with Sylvester Coddmyer III. “Three homers in your first game! That’s a record, son!”
Sylvester blushed. “You mean no one has hit three homers in a first game before?”
“I don’t think so,” said the coach. “Not for Hooper Junior High, anyway.”
Jim Cowley walked, but the next three guys failed to get on and the Redbirds retired. The Tigers leadoff man flied out to center. Glen missed another hot grounder, his second, and the Tigers had a man on.
The next Tiger smashed out a single, and the runner on first dashed around to third, sliding in to the bag in a close play.
“Safe!” yelled the man in blue.
Rick fanned the next man. Two outs. Then Rick caught a pop-up, ending the game. Redbirds 6, Tigers 5.
Sylvester picked up his glove and barely turned around to head for home when the mob swooped on him like a flock of pigeons onto a pile of corn. The shook his hands. They patted him on the back. They ruffled his hair. They praised him. He had never expected anything like this in his life.
When they finally broke away, there was one kid still standing there, smiling at him. He was much shorter than Sylvester, and younger. His hair was blond and sort of long, and he wore tinted, black-rimmed glasses.
Snooky Malone was the only kid Sylvester knew who read everything he could get his hands on about astrology. It was his belief that every person was born under a certain star and that that star ruled his destiny.
“Hi, Sylvester,” said Snooky, his eyes like large black periods behind the tinted lenses.
“Hi, Snooky,” said Sylvester, straightening up his clothes and his cap and starting for home.
Snooky Malone ran after him. “I was just wondering, Syl. When’s your birthday? The day and month… I don’t need the year.”
Sylvester looked at him curiously. Snooky couldn’t weigh over eighty-six pounds.
“What do you mean you don’t need the year?”
Snooky’s smile faded and came back. “I want to read your horoscope, that’s why. Bet you were born under the sign of Scorpio.”
“When’s that?”
“Between October twenty-fourth and November twenty-second.”
“Wrong,” said Sylvester. “I was born between May first and May thirtieth. May twenty-seventh, to be exact.”
“Gemini!” Snooky’s smile brightened like a star itself.
“What’s exciting about that?” asked Sylvester, not especially sharing Snooky’s enthusiasm.
“It’s your star! You’re a Gemini!” said Snooky.
Sylvester frowned. “Is that good or bad?”
Snooky laughed. “How could it be bad? You’re knocking out home runs, aren’t you?”
A voice called from near the dugout. “Sylvester!” It was Coach Corbin. “I’m inviting the team to an ice cream treat at Chris an’ Greens! Can you come?”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
“I’ll be there,” said Sylvester.
He looked around and saw Snooky running toward the gate. Then he looked toward the first-base bleachers and saw George Baruth standing in front of them, waving to him.
“Nice hitting, Sylvester!” cried Mr. Baruth.
“Thanks!”
“Oh,
that’s okay, Syl. As a matter of fact, you deserve it.”
Sylvester stopped dead in his tracks, turned, and saw Coach Corbin smiling at him.
It was the coach who had answered him. When he looked back toward the bleachers, George Baruth was gone.
7
Sylvester put down a banana split that was bigger, “bananier,” and nuttier than he had ever had before. And just because he was the hero of today’s game.
The team then went home. After Sylvester showered and got into clean, everyday clothes, he ate supper with Mom. Dad was out on “the road,” as he called it. He wasn’t coming home till Friday night.
“You probably won’t want dessert after having a banana split,” said Mom, whose color of eyes and hair matched his.
“What have you got?” he asked. He felt full, but if Mom had baked something he liked, he’d make room for it.
“Apple pie,” she said.
Apple pie? No pie made was tastier and more delicious than the apple pie Mom made.
“I’ll have a piece,” he said.
His mother stared at him. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he answered and settled back to wait for it.
She took the pie—a large, puffy, crusty thing—out of the oven, set it on the counter, and cut him a piece. She placed it on a small dish and put it before him. His mouth watered just looking at the soft, juicy apples oozing from under the crust.
He made a noise like a hungry tiger, cut a chunk of it with his fork, and stuck it into his mouth. While he chewed he looked up at his mother, his eyes as big as stoplights. “Mom,” he said, “it tastes just as delicious as it looks!”
“Thank you, son,” she said. “But don’t make a hog of yourself.”
Five minutes after he was finished he felt sick. Mom cleared off the table and he still sat there.
“Something wrong, Sylvester?” she asked.
“I think I made a hog of myself,” he replied frankly.
“Ate too much, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “Can I lie down?”
“Not on a full stomach. Sit in the living room till your food digests a bit. Later on you may lie down.”
He got up, went into the living room, and sat down. He didn’t even feel like turning on the television set. He sat with his legs sprawled out and his head resting against the side of the easy chair. Man, did he feel sick.
After a while Mom let him go to bed.
“You’ll feel much better in an hour or so,” she said.
He closed his eyes. He didn’t know whether he had slept or not, but when he opened them again, there sat George Baruth, looking at him sourly.
“Hi, kid,” said George.
“Well, hi, Mr. Baruth,” replied Sylvester. “I didn’t hear you come in. I guess I must have fallen asleep.”
“I understand you overloaded yourself,” said George Baruth.
Sylvester grinned weakly. “A little,” he admitted.
“Little, my eye,” grunted George Baruth. “If it were a little you wouldn’t be lying there. First a big banana split, then a chunk of apple pie on top of a big dinner. If that isn’t being a glutton I don’t know what is.”
“Yeah. You’re right, Mr. Baruth. But how did you know I was sick? How did you know I had a banana split and then an apple pie on top of my dinner?”
George Baruth’s eyes twinkled, and he reached over and patted Sylvester’s hand. “Don’t worry about it, kid,” he said softly. “Just don’t make a hog of yourself again or you’ll find yourself sitting on the sidelines instead of playing.”
He rose. “Take care, kid. See you at the next game.”
“Okay, Mr. Baruth. Thanks for coming.”
After George Baruth left, Sylvester lay there, thinking. How did he know I was sick? he wondered. Only Mom knew that.
Presently Mom came in, smiling. “Feel better?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He looked at her seriously. “Mom, did Mr. Baruth call or something?”
She frowned. “Mr. Baruth?”
“Yes. He’s the guy who’s helping me play baseball. Did he call? Did you tell him I was sick?”
“What do you mean, Sylvester? I didn’t see any Mr. Baruth.”
He stared at her. “He was here a few minutes ago, Mom. You… you must have let him in.”
She looked at him worriedly, came nearer, and put a hand on his forehead. “You’re cool now,” she observed. “You must have had a fever, or were dreaming.”
“No, I wasn’t, Mom,” he insisted. “He was here, visiting me!”
The worried look disappeared and she smiled. “Okay, okay. Don’t get excited. But please try to understand, son. No one came in here. I would have seen him if he did. You must have dreamed it all.”
8
The Hooper Redbirds had first raps against the Lansing Wildcats in their second league game on the Lansing athletic field. Apparrently Coach Corbin’s faith in Sylvester Coddmyer III had improved, because he was lifting Sylvester’s position in the batting order from ninth to eighth.
Sylvester glanced at the first-base bleachers. Sure enough, George Baruth was sitting at the end of the third row, wearing the same pants, same jersey, same coat, same cap. Mr. Baruth must have caught his eye for he lifted a hand in a wave, and Sylvester waved back.
He thought of that evening last week when he was sick and had that dream—or whatever it was—of George Baruth’s coming to visit him. If it was a dream, it sure was as real as could be.
Jim Cowley, leading off, lambasted a high pitch to center field for the first out. Ted Sobel struck out, Milt Stevens walked, and Jerry Ash flied out to end the top half of the inning.
Right-hander Terry Barnes, slender as a reed and slow as molasses, had trouble finding the plate and walked the first two Wildcats. Up came Bongo Daley, the short, stout Wildcat pitcher.
“A pitcher batting third?” muttered Jim Cowley. “Must be a hitter, too.”
Apparently Bongo was. He drilled Terry’s first pitch to left center for a double, scoring one run. The cleanup hitter stepped to the plate.
Terry bore down and struck him out with five pitches. Bobby Kent caught a long fly in center field. The runner on third tagged up and raced in for the second run. A pop-up to short ended the inning.
“Come on, you guys,” snapped Coach Corbin. “This isn’t tiddlywinks. It’s baseball. Let’s get going!”
Bobby, leading off, smashed a liner down the left-field foul line that just missed going fair by inches. He lambasted another almost in the same spot.
“Straighten it out, Bobby!” yelled the coach.
Bobby did. The third baseman caught the next line drive without moving a step.
The ball hadn’t risen more than five feet off the ground. One out.
Duane walked. Eddie popped to short for the second out, and up to the plate stepped Sylvester Coddmyer III.
The crowd cheered. The cheerleaders led with:
Fee! Fie! Fo! Fum!
We want a home run!
Sylvester Coddmyer!
Hooraaaay!
Suddenly Sylvester remembered that he had forgotten to look for the coach’s signal. He stepped out of the box, glanced at the coach sitting in the dugout, received a smile in return and the sign to “hit away,” and stepped back into the box.
“Ball!” cried the ump as Bongo blazed in the first pitch.
“Ball two!”
Then, “Strike!”
Wasn’t that a little too low? thought Sylvester.
“Ball three!”
“He’s going to walk you, Syl!” yelled Jim Cowley.
“Steeeeerike!”
Three and two. Bongo caught the ball from his catcher, stepped off the mound, loosened his belt, tightened it, yanked his cap, and finally stepped on the rubber. He stretched, delivered, and bang!
Sylvester’s bat connected with the ball, and for a moment he watched the white sphere drill a hole through the sky as it shot to deep center field. Then he d
ropped the bat and started his easy run around the bases while the cheers of the fans and cheerleaders rang in his ears.
“It’s fantastic, Syl!” cried the coach as he shook Sylvester’s hand at the plate. “Just fantastic!”
“How do you do it?” asked Jerry Ash, who was supposed to be the team’s cleanup hitter.
“I just pick the good one and swing,” replied Sylvester honestly.
“And blast it out of the park,” added the coach.
Terry went down on three straight pitches. Three outs.
Redbirds 2, Wildcats 2.
Terry Barnes’s first pitch to the Wildcat leadoff man was drilled sharply through the hole between first and second bases. Sylvester stooped to field the low, sizzling roller, but the ball squirted through his legs. He spun, raced after it, picked it up near the fence, and heaved it in. Sick over the error, he saw the Wildcat pulling up safely at third.
“Forget to drop your tailgate, Syl?” asked Ted Sobel, grinning.
“Guess so,” replied Sylvester.
A pop fly to third, and then a one-hopper slammed back to Terry, accounted for two outs, and Sylvester felt better. The Wildcat whose ball he had let skid through his legs was still on third.
Ted Sobel caught a long, high fly for the third out.
Bobby Kent belted a single that half inning, scoring two runs.
Bongo’s home run over the left-field fence with nobody on was the Wildcats’ only hit in the bottom of the third.
Eddie Exton, leading off for the Redbirds in the top of the fourth, popped out to second. And even before Sylvester started for the plate, the Redbird cheerleaders were yelling:
Hey! Hey! Who do we admire?
Sylvester Coddmyer!
The third!
The girls jumped and clapped, joined in applause by the Redbird fans.
Sylvester, blushing, stepped to the plate.
9
Bongo Daley fired the first pitch high and outside for ball one. He didn’t look worried that the batter might blast a pitch out of the lot.
But the next two pitches weren’t over the plate either.
His catcher called time and ran out to the mound to talk with him. So did the first and third baseman. The huddle lasted half a minute.
The Kid Who Only Hit Homers Page 3